Chapter 22 #2
"I was giving you easily digestible foods," I protest, standing as well. "You need to keep your strength up while your body heals."
She laughs, a bright sound that does something dangerous and warm to my chest, making me want to hear it every single day for the rest of my life.
Maya hugs Delaney carefully, mindful of her injured ribs and the bulky leg brace. "I'll check on you tomorrow morning before I head to work. Try to actually rest instead of hobbling around trying to reorganize the bookshelves."
After Maya leaves, I help Delaney navigate the narrow doorway back to the living room, one arm around her waist to steady her progress. She's breathing hard by the time we reach the couch, small puffs of air escaping her lips as she absorbs the pain.
"These crutches are much harder than they make them look in movies," she admits, settling back against the cushions with visible relief.
"You're supposed to be resting and letting your body heal, not wandering around playing hostess," I say, arranging the soft throw blanket over her legs.
"I was worried about you," she says, catching my wrist as I fuss with the blanket. "You've been so quiet since we got back from the hospital. Brooding more than usual, if that's even possible."
I busy myself with straightening the coffee table, avoiding her penetrating gaze. "Just tired."
"Mac." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, I meet her eyes, and the understanding I see there nearly undoes me completely.
"Talk to me," she says softly. "What's really going on in that complicated head of yours?"
For a moment, I consider telling her everything.
About how hearing her laugh makes me feel like I can actually breathe again after months of suffocating.
About how terrified I was when I saw her unconscious and bleeding in that crumpled car, how the paramedics had to physically restrain me from climbing into the ambulance.
About how the thought of losing her made me realize I've been lost myself for longer than I want to admit.
Instead, I pull my hand free and walk to her overflowing bookshelf, needing physical distance to think clearly.
"The bet's almost over," I say, running my finger along the worn spine of a romance novel. "Christmas is next week."
I feel rather than see her shoulders drop. "I know."
"And then what happens? What comes after?"
The question hangs between us like a live wire, loaded with everything we're not saying. Everything we're too scared to admit. I can feel her watching me, but I can't bring myself to turn around and face whatever I might see in her expression.
"I don't know," she replies quietly. Honestly. "What do you want to happen?"
My phone chooses that exact moment to buzz insistently against my thigh. I pull it out, grateful for any interruption, until I see my agent's name flashing on the screen.
Rebecca. The woman who's made a career out of cleaning up my messes.
"I should take this," I say, stepping back into the kitchen for privacy.
"Mac, thank God you picked up!" Rebecca's voice is bright with barely contained excitement. "Have you seen any of the coverage from this week?"
My stomach drops like a stone. "What coverage?"
"The accident made national news! 'Hockey Star Saves Romance Bookshop Owner'. The headlines are absolutely perfect. The photos of you carrying her out of that car are everywhere, and the narrative is completely magical."
"Photos?" The word comes out strangled.
"Someone got the whole rescue on their phone camera.
Mac, this is the best news we could have asked for.
You're not the reckless player who cost his team a playoff spot anymore.
Now you're the romantic hero protecting the woman he loves in a picturesque small town.
I figured it could go either way, honestly.
But the internet is absolutely eating this story up. "
I close my eyes, leaning against the counter for support. "Rebecca—"
"I'm serious, Mac. The hashtag 'Millbrook Mac' is trending on every social media platform. Fans are calling you a real-life romance novel hero. This is exactly the image rehabilitation we've been working toward for months."
The irony isn't lost on me. I came to this town to disappear, to hide from the world, and somehow I've become the center of exactly the kind of media circus I was trying to escape.
"And here's the really good news," Rebecca continues, her voice rising with excitement. "The team wants to know when you're coming back. Your medical team cleared you last week, and with this overwhelmingly positive press, management is ready to welcome you back with open arms."
"They want me back?" The question comes out breathless, disbelieving.
It feels completely surreal. All this time I've been working toward this moment, pushing through grueling physical therapy sessions and nursing my shoulder back to full strength.
I've pushed myself to my absolute limit with the singular goal of getting back on the team while we still had a chance at making the playoffs.
So why, now that it's finally happening, do I feel so utterly hollow?
"Absolutely!" Rebecca's delighted laugh fills the phone line.
"Henry from Player Safety called me first thing this morning.
They've reviewed all your medical reports, and everyone agrees you're ready to return to play.
Once we get one of their doctor's eyes on you one more time, of course.
After the scare we all had with this second accident, we're eager to get you back under proper team supervision. "
"I'm not sure if I'm ready."
Silence fills the other end of the line. Then: "Mac, you can't be serious. This is your entire career we're talking about."
"I know exactly what we're talking about," I bite out, my free hand clenching into a fist.
"Is this about the girl? Because if it is, you need to remember that hockey careers don't last forever, but they're also once-in-a-lifetime opportunities. You can't throw away everything you've worked for because of some small-town–"
"Don't." My voice comes out harsher than I intended, sharp enough to cut. "Just... give me some time to think about this. I just got out of a second car accident, for fuck’s sake."
I end the call before she can respond and stare down at the phone in my hand, my reflection distorted in the black screen.
Six months ago, getting back to professional hockey was the only thing that mattered.
The only goal worth pursuing. Now the thought of leaving Millbrook Falls—leaving Delaney when she's hurt and needs help—feels like losing another essential piece of myself.
"Everything okay?" Delaney calls from the living room, her voice tinged with concern.
I walk back to her, noting how she's trying unsuccessfully to hide her wince as she shifts position on the couch. "Fine. Just work stuff."
She studies my face with those perceptive green eyes. "You're a terrible liar, Mac Sullivan."
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "I'm out of practice."
She pats the cushion beside her. "Come here."
I sit down carefully, making sure not to jostle her injured leg. The couch dips under my weight, and she immediately reaches for my hand. This time, I don't pull away.
"You know what I've been thinking about while I've been stuck here recovering?" She says, her thumb tracing gentle circles on my palm.
"What's that?"
"That day at the cabin when we were snowed in together. You told me you didn't deserve good things because of what happened to Lily."
My chest tightens automatically at the mention of my sister's name. "Delaney–"
"But what if the opposite is true?" She continues, her voice growing stronger with conviction.
"What if the way to honor Lily's memory isn't to shut yourself off from joy and love, but to embrace those things fully?
What if she'd want you to live completely, love completely, believe in happy endings the way she always did? "
I stare down at our joined hands, memorizing the way her small fingers look intertwined with my larger, scarred ones.
There's ink stained under her nails from working on the budget for the bookshop, and a small cut on her knuckle from gift-wrapping books yesterday, despite my protests that she should be resting.
"What if I hurt you?" I whisper, the fear I've been carrying finally given voice. "What if I'm not capable of being what you need?"
"What if you don't hurt me?" she counters softly. "What if you're exactly what I need, and I'm exactly what you need, and we're both brave enough to find out?"
The simple question, the absolute faith in her voice, undoes something fundamental in my chest. I look up and find her watching me with those impossibly bright green eyes, full of hope and stubborn determination and something that looks dangerously, beautifully like love.
"The bet's not over yet," she says, her smile soft and knowing. "We still have one more date."
I resist the urge to laugh. The bet has been over for weeks now, maybe months. She's already won so completely that I'm not even sure when I surrendered.
"And if you win this final date?" I ask, playing along with our familiar game.
Her smile grows radiant, like sunshine breaking through storm clouds. "Then I get to prove that happy endings aren't just for fairy tales. They're for real people who are brave enough to believe in them."
I lean forward until our foreheads touch, breathing in her familiar scent of vanilla and old books and something uniquely, perfectly Delaney. "And if I win?"
"You won't," she assures with absolute confidence.
The certainty in her voice should annoy me.
Instead, it makes me want to kiss her until neither of us can remember why we started this elaborate game in the first place, until the rest of the world disappears and there's nothing but this moment.
This feeling. This impossible woman who sees something in me worth saving.
"Delaney," I start, but she shakes her head.
"One more date, Mac," she says firmly. "Then we'll figure out everything else. All of it—your career, my bookshop, what happens next. But first, one more date."
Outside her window, snow begins to fall in thick, lazy flakes, dusting the Victorian buildings across the street in pristine white. Christmas lights twinkle in storefront windows, and somewhere in the distance, church bells chime the evening hour.
I should tell her the truth. About my phone call, about the team wanting me back. I should tell her that Maya was right—I am falling for her, have already fallen so hard I can't remember what solid ground felt like.
But instead, I squeeze her hand and nod, committing to this last piece of our game. "One more date."
Because maybe Maya is right about something else, too. Maybe Delaney does deserve someone who will fight for her, who will choose her over fear and uncertainty and the comfortable numbness of an old life.
And maybe, just maybe, I'm finally ready to be that someone.
The only question now is whether I have the courage to choose love over everything else when it matters most.